LUCY
I'm in a dungeon.
It is a foul, wretched place that feels like the digestive tract of some ancient, dying beast.
The air is thick—not only with dust, but with a humid, cloying stench, a nauseating cocktail of stagnant water, rusted iron, and the sweet, heavy perfume of rot. Every breath I draw feels like I'm inhaling the accumulated suffering of every soul that has ever been left to waste within these walls.
The dungeon itself is sprawling—a cavernous expanse of shadow where the only light comes from flickering, sickly green torches mounted at distant points down the corridor. There are no windows.
The only approximation of fresh air is a thin, freezing draft that whistles through cracks in the surrounding stone, suggesting this cell is buried deep inside a fortress that is, itself, buried within a mountain or some other enormous structure.
A dungeon within a dungeon. The thought amplifies my misery in equal measure to my fear.
How do I escape from something like this?
